


A Matter of Trust

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Based on Witchmas, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen or Pre-Slash, Geralt gets hurt a lot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier takes care of him, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, woundcare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28119813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: Jaskier never considered himself someone who'd take on healing or wound care. Being with Geralt, though, inspires him to learn. Taking care of Geralt is his one way to protect the witcher from the monsters he faces.He doesn't realize Geralt feels the same sort of protectiveness over him, as well.<>Alternatively: 5 times Jaskier takes care of Geralt's wounds and 1 time Geralt does the same for him
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 484
Collections: Five times a character did something cute and one that I saved it as a bookmark, Just.... So cute..., Math





	A Matter of Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely inspired by the Witchmas thing that's happening on twitter.
> 
> No, look, I swear it makes sense. Like "cuts from season 1" was an option? So I wrote a story about literal cuts that probably happened during season 1. Ta-da!
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Thanks for giving this fic a chance!

I

The healer says they’ll need to stitch the gash currently gaping up at Jaskier from across Geralt’s right shoulder blade. She uses big fancy words she must have learned from some big fancy school, pulling out herbs and thread without taking the time to explain what anything means. 

Jaskier stands on the other side of the cot, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth as he looks down at Geralt’s— pale, limp,  _ dying _ — form. It’s a miracle he’d been able to make it to the healer, at all.

(He likes to think he helped with that, that tucking himself under Geralt’s arm and yelling for aid as they’d trudged through the village had somehow saved the witcher from— )

((Another part of his mind whispers that he hasn’t saved him. Geralt’s still bleeding out, still unconscious, still waiting for a stranger to sew him up. Will the healer be kind and gentle? Will she rush through the process? Will she care?))

Jaskier rests a hand on Geralt’s other shoulder, free from the terror of werewolf claws. The bone is steady under his palm, shifting with each pained breath Geralt takes. It doesn’t jut out at an awkward angle like the other one, doesn’t twist with broken shapes or angry cuts. Jaskier lets this comfort him, focusing on what’s okay. So long as he focuses on this, Geralt will be okay. He has to be.

Focus on Geralt’s breaths. Focus on his face— restful and sleeping. Focus on his hand at his side, his arm twitching gently as though he’s dreaming. Focus.

But, then—

“Here, boy,” the healer says, a gray-haired woman with laugh lines around her lips. “Pinch the wound together so I can sew it up.”

Hold the wound? Jaskier’s no healer or herbalist, no one taught him in the art of medicine or science. He’s a bard and he’s young, and this witcher barely calls him a friend and—

Jaskier doesn’t hesitate, coming to the healer’s side and doing as she says with no complaint. She readjusts his hands, explains how best to solve an injury like this, and Jaskier takes it all in with wide eyes and hurried nods.

Maybe she senses something in him or maybe she just needs an extra pair of hands. Either way, she involves Jaskier in every aspect of her healing, sending him for salves or showing him how to check for infection. 

Towards the end, as Geralt continues to rest, Jaskier has the vague sense she may be looking for an apprentice.

“You have good hands for this,” she says, passing him a small cup of tea as they wait for Geralt to wake. “Steady. Didn’t shake once.”

Probably because he’s a performer who knows better than to let nerves get the best of him.

Probably because he’s Geralt’s friend and knows he would never risk Geralt’s life to something like that.

He glances down at his fingers, at the dried blood stuck to the tips. Geralt’s blood.

“Can you teach me?” He asks quietly, as though Geralt might hear. “How to heal?”

The healer takes a moment to answer. Her eyes shift from Jaskier to Geralt and back again.

“I can’t teach it all in one night,” she says, “but I can teach you the basics of keeping someone alive.”

Jaskier lets out a breath, nodding. Smiling.

It’ll be enough.

It will have to be enough.

II

Geralt trembles softly when Jaskier dabs at the cut on his back. It’s such a sudden reaction, such an unexpected reaction, that Jaskier pauses.

“Are you sure they didn’t get you anywhere else?” He asks, keeping his eyes on the slowly dripping cut. It’s a shallow but long curve across Geralt’s back like a place where wings might have once been. 

Geralt grunts, tense as ever. “Just the one. And I told you that you don’t need—”

“Yes, yes. You said you’re fine.” Something Jaskier still doesn’t believe it, not after the horror of watching a dozen bandits fall upon Geralt without warning. “But you’ll be complaining later if this is infected so— please. Let me help.”

There’s a moment where it seems Geralt may continue to argue, shove Jaskier away or stalk off on his own. But it’s only just a moment because, then, his shoulders soften. His arms loosen at his side, and Jaskier presses the damp cloth back against the wound. 

Geralt’s a warrior and a fighter, yes, but it’s exactly that self-imposed title that creates the requirement for someone like Jaskier in his life; when Geralt returns from his wars, broken and cut apart, Jaskier will spend however long it takes to put him back together.

And, he thinks as he reaches for the salve he’s learned to make, he’ll spend however long it takes to teach Geralt that he’s safe with him, too.

III

If he’s not careful, Jaskier knows he runs the risk of waking Geralt. It’s been a while since they’ve had the luck of staying at an inn— and such a nice one at that— so Geralt had disappeared into their room as soon as they were done with dinner, the exhaustion in his eyes speaking for itself.

Jaskier had stayed behind, playing long enough to make enough coin for another night, should Geralt need it. He’s sure he won’t have a voice tomorrow but, well, it’ll be worth it to see the gratitude in Geralt’s face.

Or, he supposes, to imagine the gratitude Geralt will— probably— feel. He’s not quite yet at the part of their friendship where Geralt shows his gratitude.

So, it’s with gentle steps and his lute held tight to his chest that he ventures down the hall and to their room, expecting to be greeted with one big sleeping witcher sprawled across the bed. 

What he opens the door to, though, isn’t at all what he’d been thinking.

Geralt sits at the edge of the bed, a roll of bandages caught between his teeth as he tries— and fails— to wrap it around his palm. He looks up sharply, catching Jaskier’s eye at the same moment the door slams shut. 

Neither of them move. 

That is, no one moves until Jaskier sees the casual drip of blood down Geralt’s wrist, streaming from an open cut across his hand. He makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat, setting his lute away and crossing the room without a moment’s hesitation. 

Questions fly to his tongue, too many and too fast. How did this happen?  _ When  _ did this happen? Why wouldn’t he tell Jaskier? Why is he doing this on his own? Doesn’t he know he doesn’t have to?

Instead, Jaskier kneels beside Geralt, focusing his vision only on the half-bandaged cut.

“You’ll only stress the wound if you try to wrap it up on your own,” he says gently. He holds his hand out for the bandages, smiling softly when Geralt drops it into his palm. There’s less hesitation than there would have been in the past, Geralt’s sigh sounding more tired than exasperated as Jaskier gets to work.

It’s not a bad cut, probably obtained from a slip of his own blade while on the last contract. New, too, if the coloring is anything to go by. Jaskier bites his tongue as he wraps it, only glancing up towards Geralt to be sure he’s not tied it too tight. He yawns as he finishes, sitting back on his heels to appreciate his own work.

He’s not expecting it, then, when Geralt pulls his hand back and begins to turn away.

“It’s late,” he says. “Take the bed.”

And, well, that won’t do, will it?

“If you think I believe that’s the only injury you’ve hid from me, you are sorely mistaken,” Jaskier says, standing. “Come on, now. Let’s get that shirt off and see what else you’ve got.”

Geralt freezes in place, looking back at him. Jaskier taps his foot on the ground— they have no time for such stubbornness.

“It’s late,” Geralt says again, slower this time. Jaskier rolls his eyes, walking over to Geralt and reaching to start checking for wounds himself.

“Yes. It’s late, so let’s not waste time pretending you’re okay, hm? Unless you want to wake up bright and early to show me the inevitable infections tomorrow,” he says.

There’s a look in Geralt’s eyes, something Jaskier hasn’t seen before from anyone. It’d be disconcerting if he took the time to think about it.

“Aren’t you—” Geralt cuts off, looking away. Jaskier’s brows furrow together but he’s learned by now not to push.

He leads Geralt to the bed, tapping at his shoulders to get him to sit. He fusses and jokes and checks to be sure that nothing is really hurting Geralt as he checks each cut and bruise— no matter how small they are.

Through it all, Geralt watches him with that look. By the end of the night, Jaskier still doesn’t know what it means.

  
  


IV

“Oh, will you stop being such a child? I’ve stitched you up before, I don’t get what the problem is now.” 

Jaskier’s jaw tightens as Geralt, again, pulls away from him with a hiss, face turned away. 

“I don’t need any fucking stitches,” Geralt growls. The gaping wound across his ribs says otherwise. Jaskier decides to listen to the latter. 

“And I don’t believe you,” he snaps, reaching for Geralt again. Geralt pulls away, just out of reach, and Jaskier tosses the needle and thread down in favor of leaning forward into Geralt’s space. There’s not much room for Geralt to escape, propped up against a tree with Jaskier kneeling beside him, but he does damned best to keep as far as he can.

“Now, listen here, you absolute horse’s ass,” Jaskier snaps, shoving a finger into Geralt’s face. “You are not just walking away from a fucking drowner fight without letting me check over this wound. I don’t care if you’ve had worse or if you’ve suddenly found a new sense of stubborn pride— the last thing I want is to have you keel over dead due to an injury I could have sewn up. So sit back and sit still or, so help me, I will tie you to the tree and stitch you up without any numbing salve.”

The sudden stillness after Jaskier’s words is filled only by his own grumbling as he stands and stalks back over to Roach, digging through her bags to pull out a new needle and thread. He strains to keep his fury within his mind, lips slammed shut as he turns back to face Geralt. He plops down beside him once more, a challenging look in his eyes as he holds the needle up.

Geralt tenses once, muscles tight and doing nothing good for the cut currently trying to bleed him dry, but then relaxes. He faces away from Jaskier but, well, it’s good enough. 

Jaskier takes a breath and forces himself to calm. As angry as he is, he can’t let that impact his attempts at healing. Once he feels ready— or close enough to ready— he gets to work.

It’s silent work, frustrating but steady. Geralt doesn’t flinch or make a sound when Jaskier forces the needle through his skin, though there’s a sharp intake of breath when Jaskier’s fingers brush over his side. Jaskier doesn’t let himself think about it. 

It’s when he’s tying off the final stitch and thinking of the bruises on Geralt’s back that Geralt lets out a sigh, still facing away.

“I should have sensed them,” he says, so soft Jaskier barely hears. “But by the time I realized we were so close to a nest, they had already—” He cuts off with an angry grunt, though Jaskier can’t tell who the anger is for anymore.

“Hardly the first time you let a creature get the best of you,” he says, hoping it sounds reassuring. Geralt shakes his head, sitting up straighter— further from Jaskier.

“I let us get too close,” he says as though it’s some great confession. “I— I let  _ you  _ get too close.” 

_ Oh _

Jaskier holds himself back from the embrace he so desperately wishes to fling upon Geralt now, his muscles practically shaking from the effort. He blinks, watching Geralt even as Geralt’s eyes land on everything but him.

“They didn’t get me,” he says, settling for the simplicity of his hand resting on Geralt’s stomach a few inches away from his cut. “I’m okay.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s hand over Jaskier’s, just hovering— hesitant to fully touch. “You almost weren’t. And it would have been my fault.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Jaskier’s heart does a funny little thing in his chest.

“Not worth thinking about now,” he says. Easy words, but his voice twists a little at the end, still stuck on the way Geralt’s fingers are brushing over his. He turns his hand and grips Geralt’s, helping him to his feet. “Besides, you’re the one who’s hurt, dear.”

Jaskier freezes the moment the words leave his mouth, the pet name escaping unbidden. It’s just that Geralt had sounded so soft, so afraid— it’s just that he kept looking away from Jaskier as though he’d done something wrong, as though Jaskier could ever truly find a reason to be upset with him. He’d wanted Geralt’s eyes back, his ease and comfort around him. He’d wanted something more than the tension brought between them now.

There’s a sound Geralt makes— neither a grunt nor a hum— and he tugs his hand away. He turns his back to Jaskier, walking back towards Roach. 

“Wait!” Jaskier calls out, tripping over his feet in his haste to follow. Geralt pauses but he doesn’t turn around. Jaskier swallows, mouth dry. “Your— Your back. There are bruises and it—”

Geralt reaches into Roach’s bags and pulls free a small container of salve meant to ease the ache of bruises. Geralt heals quickly but that doesn’t mean the pain’s any less. He passes the container to Jaskier.

He’s still not talking but, at least, he’s stopped walking away. He trusts Jaskier to do this part. 

As Jaskier dips his fingers into the salve and spreads it across the expanse of Geralt’s back, it’s enough for now.

V.

It’s dark. There are more clouds in the sky than there are stars. It’s nice that Geralt made a fire and camp before heading off on his Very Dangerous Contract but the night’s growing chiller with each passing moment, and Jaskier can only entertain himself for so long.

Still, Jaskier strums his lute and hums his tunes. He tries to find a perfect rhyme for  _ foglet—  _ it’ll probably be easier when Geralt returns with more details about the hunt but Jaskier likes to get a headstart on these things. They’ll be in town tomorrow and he’d like to debut the song as soon as possible, get Geralt the attention and recognition he deserves right away.

He’s in the middle of comparing a ghost’s smile to an open wound— a metaphor that may need more work— when there’s a noise from the dark. He pauses, heart stuttering in his chest even as he sits in the safety of their campfire light. There’s a groan, a heaving for breath, a crackling of twigs under heavy feet.

Of all the things Jaskier expects to appear, Geralt’s half-dead face is not it.

But Geralt it is, emerging from the dark like a vision at night, face pale as death but for the black veins streaking from his equally abyss-like eyes— but for the blood smattering over his brow, the gruesome cuts tearing down his cheek. He’s something other than human or witcher under the moon, shaded silver beneath its light; a mystery revealing itself as he staggers forward, eyes already half shut.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries out. His lute set aside, the fire and light forgotten as he urges himself forward. He cradles Geralt’s face in his hands, thumb caught beneath that horrid cut. 

Geralt falls forward into his arms in one movement, mouth moving slowly as his breaths come out in desperate puffs.

Jaskier sinks slowly, holding Geralt against his chest as though to keep him warm, the outline of Geralt coating him. He’s close, closer than he’s ever been allowed; if he were to turn, his lips would brush Geralt’s cheek. 

“Geralt, darling, please. Look at me.” Gently pushing Geralt back, wincing at the torn skin around Geralt’s mouth, the blood sticking to his teeth. Jaskier’s hand holds Geralt’s, gripping tighter with each detail he sees. Geralt doesn’t seem to see him, blinking with black eyes and muttering lowly to himself. Jaskier swallows, throat suddenly pained and swollen. “Alright then. Let’s get you to the fire and I’ll get you fixed up.”

It’s a slow process, leading Geralt over towards the bedrolls and warmth. Jaskier holds Geralt close to his side, glaring into the dark around them. He shouldn’t have let Geralt go alone, should have never waved him off with a smile as Geralt vanished into the night. 

Never again, Jaskier swears. Fuck Geralt’s warnings and his threats— Jaskier will not let Geralt come to him like this again. 

He lowers Geralt steadily to the ground then starts loosening his armor. His eyes flicker over every part of Geralt he can see, checking his fingers and hands and collarbone and shoulders and legs and arms and everything for any breaks and deep cuts. Once satisfied that his bones, at least, are safe, Jaskier gets to work on the rest.

Through it all, Geralt’s lips keep moving.

The blood cleans away with one of Jaskier’s old doublets, the fabric softer for Geralt’s oversensitive skin in this state. He’s careful when dabbing at the skin around Geralt’s eyes, the veins slowly beginning to fade away. He wraps his own cloak over Geralt’s shoulders once he’s undressed his top half, apologizing for the cold. 

It’s as he’s reaching for their pack of medicines and herbs that Geralt says his name.

“Jaskier,” he whispers, no louder than any other sound he’s made tonight.

Jaskier glances over. “Yes, dear? You—”

But Geralt’s not looking at him. His face is straight ahead, eyes still unfocused. How often has he returned from a hunt like this? Lost and confused, waiting out his potions and terrors with no one to hold his hand through it? Half-delirious— exhausted and pained, Geralt blinks at nothing.

“I have to make it back to Jaskier,” Geralt says, picking at a cut across the back of his hand. “He’ll know what to do.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath, feeling run through. Something tender fills him, something hopeful and overcome by Geralt’s words— Geralt’s trust. 

In the same moment, though, he knows he cannot remind Geralt of what he’s said when all of this is through. It’s enough, anyhow, to know Geralt’s said it, at all.

Geralt’s face held in Jaskier’s hand once more; he presses ever so subtly into the touch.

“That’s right, Geralt. And you did good. You made it back to me,” he whispers. He needs to start stitching and cleaning and disinfecting but first— 

He leans towards Geralt, lets their foreheads rest against each other. He shuts his eyes and takes a shaky breath.

“I can’t shield you from your monsters and fights but, I swear to you, I will do my utmost to protect you from the pains that come after,” he swears. “Just promise to always come back to me.”

  
  
  


+1

There’s a cut on the side of Jaskier’s head. His hair glimmers with tiny shards of glass. His ear is tinted pink from the blood Geralt had washed away when they’d first sat down. 

Geralt runs his finger over the outer ridge of Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier squeaks but he doesn’t flinch away.

“Just making no glass cut the skin here,” he says. It’s a lie. He’d see the glass before he’d feel it; Jaskier, though, doesn’t need to know that. So, he brushes his finger over it again. Jaskier’s so… soft.

So breakable.

Geralt sighs. He doesn’t miss the way his breath creates a ripple effect across Jaskier’s hair; he doesn’t miss the way Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up.

“You shouldn’t have started that fight,” he says, brushing aside Jaskier’s hair to better access the cut. “They could have killed you.”

“They barely touched me.”

“They bashed a bottle against your head.”

“Yes, well.” Jaskier sniffs. “Their loss. I hope they paid a fortune for that wine.”

The injury’s not as bad as it could be, all things considered. It’s jagged and sharp, sure, but Jaskier’s hair will hide the stitch job once Geralt’s done; Jaskier had been overly relieved to hear that it wasn’t so hidden they’d have to shave his hair down. 

It’s still bleeding, though, and Geralt has to remind himself that that’s just what head wounds do. Jaskier’s  _ fine. _

Or, at least, he will be once Geralt stops… doing whatever it is he’s doing… and starts patching him up. 

He takes the needle and thread from Jaskier. He ignores how his own hands are shaking.

He sewed himself up a thousand times before Jaskier. How are his hands just shaking now?

Wipe off the wound. Pinch the skin together. 

Geralt starts.

He’s halfway through when Jaskier, more silent than he’s ever been in his life, speaks.

“I’m not sorry, you know,” he says. “I’d do it again.”

Geralt’s teeth grit together. “Jaskier—”

“I mean it,” he says, more certain this time. “There will never be a time where I back down from defending the people I care about.”

“What?” Geralt’s eyebrows pinch together. Jaskier’s making no sense and Geralt’s vaguely considered he may have more of a concussion than he let on. “They weren’t even talking to you before you—”

Before he tossed his lute to the nearest barmaid. Before he snarled and bared his teeth and threw himself at a pack of men laughing in the back. 

Before he shouted something about how  _ “”you’re nothing but a group of limp cocks”  _ and  _ “you’re the only monsters here”  _ and  _ “I’ll be the who butchers your sorry ass”  _ and  _ “Geralt’s a good man”  _ and—

And Geralt’s face warms, though he knows he can’t blush. 

“Oh,” he says. 

Jaskier smiles. “Just catch on now, did you?”

Geralt says nothing, focusing on the in and out of the needle. Not that Jaskier ever needs a response to keep talking.

“Now you see why I was telling you not to pull me out of there,” he says, wincing slightly as Geralt ties off the stitch. “I should have—”

“You still should have stayed out of it,” Geralt says more forcefully than he means to. He breathes heavily, still seeing the sight in his mind. Jaskier swinging his fists with an angry shout, the men falling upon him as one mass. Jaskier still fighting and screaming, never reacting to their blows or words. 

Then, that bottle. That awful crashing sound. Jaskier staggering back with a horribly blank look in his eyes. 

He’d recovered in a moment but— but Geralt couldn’t risk another hit like that. He’d dragged him out as he screamed obscenities, Geralt tuning out the cursing by chiding himself for letting things go so far.

“What? You can’t be serious.” Jaskier nearly turns but Geralt settles his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, keeping him in place. His full body is nearly trembling now. “I need to know those kind of people won’t be a problem.”

Geralt lets out a strange breath— he didn’t realize a breath could sound so broken. He hides it by pressing his head to Jaskier’s shoulder, breathing in his scent— healthy, protected, whole.

“And I need to know that you’re safe,” he says. He doesn’t know whether he wants Jaskier to hear him or not but, all the same, Jaskier stills. “Please.”

Jaskier’s silence and stillness is a terrible thing. It goes on forever— for lifetimes and eternities. 

It’s when Geralt’s pulling away with a sigh that Jaskier reaches for him.

“Can I— Can I look at you now?” He asks in a small voice. Geralt hadn’t realized he’d still been holding him, hands sunk down to Jaskier’s arms to keep him forward. Geralt makes a soft sound and lets go.

Just as quick, Jaskier turns and takes hold once more.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is muffled from where he’s buried his face in Geralt’s neck. Geralt stiffens at the sudden embrace but slowly— slowly, slowly— wraps his arms back around Jaskier. It’s… nice. Something within him shifts back into place, something he hadn’t known he’d been missing. Like this is where Jaskier’s belonged all this time. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Geralt’s rebuff that he wasn’t worried sits upon his tongue, a reply he’d give in any other situation than this. 

Instead, he holds Jaskier tighter. 

“I promise to come back to you,” he says, repeating words he never told Jaskier he’d heard. Jaskier’s heart is a thunderstorm in his chest, beating so hard Geralt swears he can feel the vibrations of it against his own. “So promise that you’ll be safe. That you’ll, too, be able to come back to me.”

Jaskier laughs— it’s a funny little sound, filled with more emotion than Geralt knew a laugh could have.

“Of course,” he says. “Of course.”

And that’s all Geralt needs to hear. It’s—

Holding Jaskier, listening to the hum of his breath, warm in his arms.

It’s more than enough.

It’s everything he’ll ever need.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about wound care aside from applying sticky band aids and reading stuff online. Also, I did my absolute best to edit this but, well, no beta so I apologize for any and all mistakes!


End file.
